Spinning Tales
by Lavinia Swire
Summary: Sybil isn't sure these days how much of what comes out of her mouth is the truth and how much is lies. Oneshot. Winner of a Highclere Award!


I don't own Downton Abbey, sadly.

My first fanfic ever, so I'm quite nervous! Please, please review - I'd really love to know what you think!

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Spinning Tales

_Anything can lead to a lie; boredom, exhaustion, attempts to save face or save feelings. The trouble with spinning tales is that you come to think of them as a safety net, to catch you if you slip. You begin to rely on them, and later you start to trust them. You convince yourself that you'll never be found out._

And that's precisely when they're liable to come crashing down on your head.

Sybil isn't sure these days how much of what comes out of her mouth is the truth and how much is lies.

She was taught as a child never to lie, of course, and as a young girl the tiniest falsehood or cover-up of an indiscretion could keep her awake all night. But things are different now, she reasons.

She doesn't worry about the white lies she uses to avoid time or concern on someone else's part. When her mother enquires as to why she looks so pale or Anna gently comments on her distraction or her red eyes, she spins a tale about a bad night's sleep and feels no guilt whatsoever. After all, they have enough to worry about.

The stories of headaches and tiredness she concocts to avoid long dull dinner parties are more difficult to justify, but she tells herself that it means Edith will receive more attention if she doesn't attend, and she manages to feel almost virtuous.

And then there are the charity committee meetings (or rather, the canvassing and the suffragette gatherings), the green, white and purple hair ribbons explained away with an airy, 'Oh, I just felt like a change', and the various papers and leaflets she manages to smuggle into the house. Her copies of The Manchester Guardian, purchased illicitly whenever she goes to town alone, are meticulously shredded and disposed of, for fear that, should her father find them, he would ban 'this liberal nonsense' altogether. Her leaflets and well-thumbed copies of Votes for Women (of which she buys every one without fail) are wedged under her mattress or stowed safely in a box on top of her wardrobe, away from prying eyes. She has no qualms when she brushes off her frequent visits to town or slips up the back stairs with the latest edition of Votes for Women tucked inside her coat, simply considering it her political education, and therefore essential.

Although, if she were utterly honest with herself, she would have to admit that it's not the only reason why she's taken to going out in the car almost every day.

The primary reason, with those sparkling blue eyes and fascinating beliefs and ideas, has inadvertently caused Sybil to tell so many lies it's a wonder she manages to keep track. Lies covering up lies, tales woven about essential errands, calls to pay or repay, any excuse to commandeer the car for an afternoon. Exaggerations and imaginations about various young men at balls or dinner parties to try and divert her mother's or Mary's growing suspicions about her true feelings. It's got so bad that the afternoons she isn't in the car or resolutely _not_ thinking about a certain Irish someone, she's scheming about how to convince her father that she urgently needs to go into Ripon again for the fourth time that week.

And, above all, she lies to herself. Pretends that the fluttering in her stomach is due to her skipping breakfast; suppresses the feeling in her heart that she gets whenever he takes her hand to help her into the car; concentrates very hard on something else whenever she begins to consider that her emotions may be more serious, more dangerous, than she first realized. It's easier to just pretend.

Until that glorious summer's day when the world ends, and Sybil suddenly finds that she can't pretend any longer.

_Anything can spark off a lie – an exchanged glance from front seat to backseat, a brief laugh shared one ordinary afternoon, a young man and woman slowly falling in love with each other and never, for one moment, allowing themselves to admit it._

But lies, however intricately woven, have a habit of coming unraveled.


End file.
